Just a Note
by Vahkhiin
Summary: A little after Advent Children, Cloud thinks that he might just tell her, but he can't find the right words to use. So he thinks he'll just kiss her and see what happens. Cloud/Tifa


**_A/N: _**_I d__idn't re-read this to make sure it's okay, so if it isn't don't blame me, blame university. As for what it is about, it's just something I came up with whilst listening to music. It's got a little bit of Cloud and a little bit of Tifa, a dash of romance and a mild lemon and a little humor too. So all in all, it's got everything all jam packed into one lol. Enjoy..._

It's dark when he gets home. There are no greetings, no hello or hi or how was your day. There's only silence and that's how it'll always be. But he doesn't mind, not really anyway. He doesn't need it, doesn't really want it either. There are very few things he actually wants, and one of them isn't a welcome home or a beaming smile. It isn't a set of open arms or a shrill of delight.

His life was never really blessed with that sort of thing, so he knows it best not to expect it. He doesn't yearn for it and he certainly doesn't lose sleep from it. But he does think about it. He thinks that it'll be nice once in a while, maybe a 'hey, how are you' or a 'hi, how was your day'. But he knows he shouldn't really expect it. He knows it'll only be selfish of him to want that.

So he tries not to think about it, and he pushes the thought from his mind as he unlocks the door and steps in. It clicks quietly and he shifts to sit on the step as he takes his shoes off. It's a little muddy and he makes sure to put it nearest to the door. He makes sure to place Fenrir's keys in the bowl before making his way to the kitchen.

He turns the lights on, and can't help but spot the note sitting on the counter. It's a little wrapper of some lolly or some sweet. He knows who wrote it and he knows what's written on it. He doesn't bother looking and instead makes his way to the microwave. He knows there's food waiting for him and he opens the door of the microwave and true enough there sits a bowl wrapped and ready to be heated. He sets the timer and stares at the bowl turning around and around.

It's done in almost a matter of seconds and he quickly removes it, wincing a little at the heat that emits through the bowl. That's his dinner, his way past midnight dinner. It isn't much but it's all he's got. It's tasty though, better than what he used to eat when he lived in the chapel.

He doesn't want to think about that right now; doesn't want to remember the past and the pain and guilt that burdened him. He tries to think of something else to try and push the thoughts from his mind. And so he stares at the picture plastered on the fridge. It's a drawing, you know, the type with crayons and pencils. The type that doesn't really match those in galleries and museums, but still they're equally just as great.

It is probably because they've got meaning and emotion. There isn't a mixed quality of this and that, or of landscapes beyond the horizon. It isn't a picture of a woman or a painting of religion. It's just a simple picture, drawn with a twirl of determination and a little bit of imagination. There's probably a little bit of childish thought in it and some love as well. But it's the best there is and that's all he can really say about it.

He looks at it a little closer as he eats his dinner. He thinks about how the picture speaks louder than words and that even though it's drawn by a child, it's still deep and meaningful as any perfected art piece ever could be. It still has meaning and could probably be defined in over a thousand words. It would probably have a book written alongside it and even a movie or an article or journal entry. The picture is of a man, a woman and two kids. They look so familiar, so define, so closely resembling the obvious.

He finishes up the last spoon of rice in his bowl and he turns his eyes to the kitchen sink. He rinses the bowl before placing it neatly on the drying rack. He washes his hand and then makes his way to the steps.

He thinks about the picture again and wonders whether he should talk to _her_ about it. That maybe he should clarify things and do what he's never been able to do before. He tries to think of the words he would use and the gestures he would make. He wonders how he should say them, whether they'd be short sentences, long ones or one worded ones.

He thinks maybe he could write it on paper and let her read it. But it wouldn't be right, he would be hiding behind words and she deserves so much more than that. She deserves long words and long sentences, she deserves poems and ballads and songs. She deserves quotes and even maybe a thesis too. She deserves the world and the stars, the mountains and the clouds. She deserves everything; everything he can never give her.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind as he passes her room. The door is a little ajar, and he looks in just momentarily. He knows that he's really looking for other reasons other than to make sure that she's okay. He knows that he's looking because he genuinely cares and wishes he could say something or do something to clear this mess between them. It is no doubt the mess is probably thinner than a couple of months ago. But the mess is still there, it's still lingering, hovering above their heads. It'll never go away and never disappear either. Because he's got to fix it, and he doesn't really know how.

She's sleeping on her side, facing him as she lives in the land of dreams. Her arms are tucked under her chin and the blankets are a little ruffled and falling over the side of the bed. He knows he really shouldn't, but before he could do anything he's already standing beside her bed. He pulls the cover to her shoulders and turns the side light off. He knows that she was probably waiting and probably gave up after the clock struck 12.

He feels a little guilty about it and ponders a little more about whether he should give the postal service a stop. He loves riding Fenrir around, and loves the feel of fresh air on his face. But he knows that he should really help her in the bar. He knows that she could really use the extra hand.

He finds himself sitting at the end of her bed and he's watching her, looking at her as she sleeps. He wonders whether she knows how beautiful she is. He thinks that it is a little unfair that something could be so beautiful. It doesn't give others a chance, really, because honestly she wins hands down against everybody else.

His thoughts shift back to wondering that maybe she already knows what he wants to say to her. That maybe she's waiting patiently until he finds the right words to say to her.

"Cloud?" he hears her murmur.

He looks at her a little startled.

She pulls the blankets as she sits beside him.

"Sorry, I was just-"

He feels her out stretched hand on his arm and he tries to think of an explanation to why he was sitting on her bed. But as he looks at her so closely he can't find the words. He can't think of an explanation or a why or a how or a 'what are you doing'. He doesn't know what to say to her; doesn't know what to think as she stares at him so closely.

And before he knows it he's kissing her, and it isn't a light kiss or a rough one either. It's a gentle one, a type of kiss that doesn't take you far and doesn't take you any closer either. It's just a kiss, the type of kiss that says more than pictures ever could. It speaks a thousand words and sings a melody; it praises a ballad and is nothing but love and emotion.

His hand slide into her hair and she pulls him closer as he pushes her back against the bed. She tastes like strawberries and she feels so perfect in his arms. He doesn't want to let go of her anymore, and he doesn't know why it took him this long to finally kiss her.

There aren't any more words between them and he can't say that he really minds either. But he still wants her to know, and he still wants to clear the mess up. But he's kissing her, and she's kissing him and he thinks that maybe she knows now.

That maybe she understands.

But she pulls back a little, and he feels her hand sliding between them against his chest. He thinks that maybe he's pushed it too far. That maybe he's taken things too fast than how it should be. So as quickly as he can muster he pulls himself away and comes to a stand.

She seems a little startled, and her hair is a little messy as she stares at him questionably.

"I uh..." he stutters, stumbling over his words as he adds, "I should um..."

"Cloud-"

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean-" he shakes his head, "I should..." he points behind his shoulder.

"Wait-"

"I love you," he blurts.

It isn't the sort of way he actually wanted to say it to her. He had planned it to be part of a long and lengthy essay of words before actually confessing. It went something along the lines of,

_Tifa, do you know how beautiful you really are? I know I don't say it often but you really are to me. You are like the stars, and the moon and the sun. You're like the wind and the mountains and the grass. You're my world Tifa, and I love you. _

But it didn't really go like that. It was more short, sharp, and rather blunt.

He expects her to say something, or add to what he has just said. But she doesn't, and her silence is regarding him rather painfully. He knows he shouldn't have just said it like that. He knew he should have added a few more words or even wrote it into a song or a ballad. He thinks he should have written it in a letter, or even an essay.

But she's suddenly kissing him now, and it isn't softly or gently, it's with passion and lust and determination. She's kissing him with love, and the tears are falling from her eyes as she kisses him. He holds her close, his hands tightening around her as he whispers her name over and over again.

She pulls him with her as she stumbles and falls onto the bed. The sheets become a fury of mess as they become one, skin to skin. He doesn't know anything anymore; he doesn't know war, or fighting or swords. He doesn't know enemies or pain or guilt. He doesn't know the past, all he knows is her now. And with that very last train of thought in his mind he smirks, because that's how it has always been. It's always been about her. His life, his pain, his happiness. It was always her.

He finds himself in the kitchen a little later, and she's still sleeping upstairs. But he thought he'd be nice, and gentlemanly as he prepped the kitchen for the bar today. And just as he adds the finishing touches the note he left on the table from the night before catches his eye. He thinks to throw it away, and as he grabs it he catches a quick glimpse of it.

"I see you've only just read the note."

He smirks as he turns to see her leaning against the door frame. Her arms are crossed, and he wonders whether she's been watching him this entire time.

"I was a little pre-occupied last night to spend time reading," he answered smugly with a barely visible smirk.

She nodded and rolled her eyes a little. "But I see you still managed to eat your dinner," she said as she looked over at the microwave.

He placed the note on the fridge with a magnet before making his way to her. "Yes well, I did see the note," he explained as he leaned against the other side of the door frame. "But I didn't think to read it because I figured that it was just telling me that I had food in the microwave."

She nodded, her lips forming the expression of an 'ah' as she voiced the "Ahh.."

And as he leaned to kiss her, the corner of his vision spotted the note and he couldn't help but smile.

_I love you, Cloud_

_P.S. There's some dinner in the microwave_

end. 


End file.
